


Story for a Winter's Night

by Who Shot AR (akerwis)



Category: Winter Song - Sara Bareilles (Music Video)
Genre: Baking, Christmas, Established Relationship, F/F, Fairy Tales, Storytelling, Winter, Writing, Yuletide Treat, nose kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:25:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akerwis/pseuds/Who%20Shot%20AR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A winter's evening in a little blue house standing alone in a snowy valley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Story for a Winter's Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spoke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoke/gifts).



Once upon a time, a little blue house stood all alone in the Great Valley in the land of Cordia, where flowers grew in great spirals and mountains sat at the horizon.  In the distance sat the castle of Princess Caraboo, who ruled the land, but it was a several days’ walk away and did not make for an easy visit.

In the little blue house lived two girls.  Sylvia was a sylph-like wonder, with dark hair and skin of ivory, while Jennywren was stout and strong, with ginger hair and glasses.  They were each others’ constant companions, so close that they knew each others’ middle names.  (Sylvia’s middle name was “Wanders-in-the-mist-until-she-gets-sick.”  Jennywren’s was “Mildred.”)

Each winter, they weathered the many snowstorms that came to the Great Valley together; each summer, they undertook the long walk to the castle of Princess Caraboo for the Midsummer Festival.  There, they sold the flowers and plants they cultivated throughout the rest of the year, as well as the potions that cunning Sylvia had mixed and bottled, and so were able to make enough money to survive alone until the next festival. 

 

“Don’t forget to write about the pie man we met on the way,” Sylvia interrupted.  She cracked an egg into the mixing bowl she stood before, and Jennywren watched with some interest.  They both knew their way around the small, warm kitchen, but making Christmas cake was Sylvia’s provenance alone; Jennywren had tried one year, and it had tasted of licorice.  She still wasn’t sure where she’d gone awry.  “And don’t make me sound so perfect.  I’m not sylph-like _or_ cunning.”

“If you keep telling me what to do, I’ll put in that you’re bossy,” Jennywren offered, setting down her pen.  She held back a laugh at the thought, but it _was_ an idea with merit.  Sylvia loved to say what they’d do next, even if she was perfectly happy to change plans at Jennywren’s slightest whim.  Then the description “sylph-like” could be kept, because she’d have added a flaw to balance it.  (Jennywren couldn’t bear to remove her description of Sylvia, because it was quite true: Where she herself was compact, Sylvia was lithe and lean, though she also tended to catch cold much more easily.  Then she would lay on her bed like a little martyr while Jennywren pushed hers close, and they would sleep curled up together on the improvised double bed, Sylvia’s wheezing breaths warming Jennywren’s neck.)

Sylvia _did_ laugh as she folded the egg into the cake batter.  “Can sylph-like wonders be bossy?”

“Yes,” Jennywren said.  The rest of the story would keep until later, she decided.  The pie man they met on their way to the festival, the way the Queen of Thieves tried to trick them out of Sylvia’s most powerful elixir, Princess Caraboo’s royal proclamation that Jennywren’s story had won the contest for best tale-telling in the land—she had plenty of time to recount those stories.  For now, she wanted to watch Sylvia bake.  “Sylphs are the bossiest.  But it’s all right, because they’re also the prettiest.”

“And they are often accompanied by young ladies of good breeding,” Sylvia suggested, getting the step-stool to poke through the cupboards.  “Who write stories and never remember to put down how pretty _they_ are.”

“That’s because they aren’t pretty.”  Telling stories to the air like this was nearly more fun than writing them down, particularly when she had someone to tell them with.

“Yes, they are.”  Sylvia hopped down from the step-stool and came over to Jennywren.  She took both Jennywren’s hands in hers, powdery and dry from the flour, and leaned in to brush her nose against Jennywren’s.  “Sylphs wouldn’t have to be so bossy if their companions weren’t so forgetful of facts like these.”

“Well.”  Jennywren closed her eyes, squeezing Sylvia’s hands.  “Perhaps they like being reminded sometimes.”


End file.
